In France, you receive a scholarship, if you do well. I didn’t need much money from my stepfather, to pay. I had about 80 percent of my tuition paid. But when you’re young—sixteen or seventeen—the most important thing in your life is your gang, your buddies, your people. Not the “gang” like they have here, with the chain. Just the gang, you know, your friends. You hang out with your buddies. In France, when you get to the college level, you don’t have much school class time. We have two hours in the morning, one hour in the afternoon, but you have a lot of homework. That’s how they operate. I would go to school, and in the afternoon when I got back, I would hang with the guys. You don’t do anything wrong, but you just hang. I would go back home at eight or nine in the evening for dinner. After dinner, I would do my homework, until one, two, three in the morning … and so on. I did that the first year, and I got away with it.
In the second year, in the fall, my stepfather came and said to me, “You’re not going to keep doing what you did, the first year.”
I said, “What do you care? I pay my tuition and everything, so what do you care about it?”
“If you live under my roof, you do as I say.”
“Well, it’s pretty simple. Then I don’t have to live under your roof.”
I didn’t want to go to the relatives. I didn’t want to go to the family to stay, so I left home and I had no place to go, no money, no nothing—just the clothes on my back. Looking in the paper and finding the room and board, it could have been mechanic. It could have been anything. Room and board was what I focused on.
I went to Pâtisserie Grandjean and they said they needed my parents to come and sign the paperwork. You’re basically a slave, when you take your apprenticeship. You sign up, and you sign your life away. Parents sign you over to the apprenticeship, and they are in charge of you. I earned 500 francs or $10.00 per month. You could buy five packs of cigarettes for $1.00. All we apprentices lived in the same building. My room was right under the roof—right under the red tiles. Not much insulation, so very hot in summer, very cold in winter. There was no water in my room. The other apprentices had running water in their rooms, on the second floor, better rooms. The third-floor apprentice earned a bit more money and a better room.
In France, in Europe, in those days, in Pastry, they didn’t have a dishwasher or pot washer. They had apprentices. They had a first-, second-, and third-year apprentice. The first-year apprentice cleaned off all the pots. Then, if you had any time left, then you could roll the croissant or the brioche, or cook the crème patisserie. You worked your ass off in order to get time to do some interesting work.
I loved working with my hands. I couldn’t believe I was making those croissants, rolling some dough—flour and water!—and making croissant and brioche dough … it seemed like a revelation. As the first-year apprentice, you’re the first one in at 4:00 a.m. to light up the big oven, and you’re the last one to leave at 7:00 or 8:00 at night, and you take the shit—excuse my French—but you take the shit from everybody. And then you move on, the second year, and the third year, and then you give the shit to the last (new first-year) apprentice. That’s how it works. I found it very difficult because it was my first job, basically, and it was harsh and demanding. And I lost my friend, my gang, because I had to go to bed at 8:00 in the evening in order to be up at three in the morning. That was the most difficult thing in the world.
I ate all the crap from everybody else, being the last one on the line. Sometimes I wonder, How did I ever become a Master Chef?
There was the Pastry Chef. He was the big guy. He walked like he walked on water, like he knew everything. If I did a good day, I was allowed to stay alone with him in the evening, when he molded the chocolate, one by one, rolling all the little candies, all the fancy work. I was authorized to clean up his table, his marble and tools, and sit up and watch him—not talking, just watching … watch him, watch him, watch him. If I was not a good boy during the day, I could not do that, I would have to leave.
Even the owner of the shop revered this guy. This Pastry Chef was like the king of the world, like my god. In my mind, at the time, I said, “I want to become a guy like this.” The guy ran the show, called the shots. He didn’t mentor me in any particular way, but I often think, What would he do? I always remember to him as being my god or my ideal. You can call it a mentor if you like, but to me, it was always the point of reference as where I wanted to be … my goal or my aims, my things to reach. This guy was the king, and at the time, I was the last piece of dirt, the piece of nothing, you know what I’m saying?
SUSAN: That’s what you did with us, in Fish Kitchen! You said that if we were exemplary in our day, we could have the privilege of staying after with you and asking questions. We couldn’t believe it! It turned my way of thinking around.
RGH: There you go. It was a privilege. If I had a good day, it was a privilege for me, and I loved it. It was very peaceful, just me watching. I couldn’t talk, couldn’t ask questions. I knew when to clean his tools, and I knew when and where to line them up. It was a privilege to be there, to be a servant, in a sense. That’s just the way it was.
SUSAN: Did the other superior apprentices stay, or just you?
RGH: It was the job of the last apprentice—the first-year. In that first year of washing dishes you learn who the good cooks and who the bad cooks are. The good cooks don’t burn the pots. The bad cooks burn the pots. The bad cooks have a lot of pots. The good cooks don’t use that many pots. Once you do your first year, you move on to the second-year apprentice and then they get a new one. The second-year apprentice doesn’t do much cleaning anymore, except their stations after they finish. They do more cooking—more brioche or whatever. They leave the small menial tasks that are a pain, like cleaning the almonds, to the first-year apprentice. Then they move up, and the third-year apprentice does more sophisticated work. They are getting close to the graduation, at the end of the three years.
I left the pastry shop about halfway through my apprenticeship and went to the kitchen. On Thursday afternoon, all the trade—butchering, baking, pastry, charcuterie, all the cooks, all those apprentices—they had the theory classes that were provided by the government. You had to attend; the law required it. You learned all those thing that are related to the profession and are the same—sanitation, nutrition, etc. We’d be at the class all day. We talked to some of the apprentices in the hotel and they said, “Look. We need an apprentice.” I talked to the instructor and the chef at the hotel and I made the move.
I couldn’t take the pastry any longer … just too hard, the hours! When I went into cooking I thought, “Ohmigod!” Like, hhhaaaaaaaahaah! You know? You started at eight in the morning, you got a break in the afternoon … you worked all day, but had a split shift, and you had off on Sunday or Monday. It was more of a life, much better than the pastry. I loved the pastry, doing with my hands, but the conditions and no team, no spirit of accord … nothing. Just the boss and that was it.
When I left Pastry and signed on as a second-year apprentice in the kitchen at the Excelsior Hotel, I needed room and board. I had to room with one of the other guys. Somebody said, “There’s room in my building.” Kitchen apprentices earn a bit more money. Also, in the kitchen, you can eat! The kitchen guys were nicer, the hours were better. The environment is more social and collaborative than Pastry. Everybody helps out better. We’re more like a family. You are not alone to do the work, by yourself, and everybody helps each other. The group of people, we had more team spirit.
Since I had completed one year in the classroom, I could enter as a second-year kitchen apprentice. I knew my way around a kitchen. The first year duties were not that much different—grunt work, cleaning, little prep. I had done some cooking…. Pastry makes gnocchi, pâtés en croûte, maybe some egg dishes. We prepared almonds. I would have to peel them, remove their skins, and bake them.
SUSAN: Do you recall anybody in the kitchen there being a mentor to you?
RGH: I�
�ve been trying to figure out what the definition of a mentor is. A mentor can be a lot of things. It could be a coach, somebody to refer to, to be your guide, or it could be a confidant. But I never had anyone really supporting me. My mother did encourage me to come back home once a month to wash my laundry. I would come, my suitcase full of clothes. She would clean it up and pack it in my suitcase, and I would leave. Other than that, I had no one who looked out for me. When I switched to the kitchen, I was able to keep up with soccer. Besides that soccer coach, I didn’t have anybody who I could discuss or sit council with, or whatever it is, for my future. I was on my own unfortunately, but that’s just the way it was.
Maybe I learned to become self-sufficient, which is what I’ve done all of my life. I never depended too much on other people. You have to look, and I’m not qualified to do that, at what made me a mentor. The lack of having one, maybe I turn around and became a mentor to other people. I do that a lot here with my chefs, in terms of certification, competitions, in terms of exploration—what’s the next move they wanna make? Maybe I became almost a natural in that way possibly, because I did not have any when I was young … it’s possible. I’m not sure.
Life was very difficult, as the apprenticeship didn’t pay anything and we worked very long hours. But I made it through and passed the CAP—Certificate of Aptitudes Professional. I received my CAP Diploma, and then worked a few seasonal positions as commis (young prep cook). I learned discipline, responsibility, accountability, persistence, and many other skills, along with a lot of the basic foundations of cooking. I had no idea of where all this would take me. I just knew that if I always did my very best in everything, then I would eventually get somewhere.
What pushed me or guided me was the picture of that pastry chef. I wanted to be so much like him, eventually. Not because I had the ego, but because I didn’t want to take any crap from anybody. I was tired of getting the crap from everybody else! If I became like him, I wouldn’t have to take it! But you know what? I still do. [Laughs] I still do take some crap from idiots—people who are stupid or don’t understand or have a misplaced ego … I have to learn to accept that. It’s not easy, but I do. Though the pastry shop was so grueling and demanding and hard, the benefit was that it exposed me to that chef, that Big Guy. I wanted to be independent, more respected—like him. I didn’t realize it at the time, but over the years, I gradually understood that. There was a reason for that, I suppose—to be exposed to that situation, even though it was so harsh. It shaped me for the future, for the rest of my life, and this, in turn, provided guidance to quite a few people in my life.
Out to Sea
What does he have that I don’t have?!
—RGH
Roland Henin spends three years working as an apprentice. This consumes his time, and he eventually leaves college and loses track of his beloved gang. The irony is not lost on young Roland, who had originally left home and estranged himself from his family because he refused to sacrifice time with his friends.
After graduation, Roland makes another bold move. Without family or gang to keep him in his hometown, young Roland has an opportunity to see a new world … an odd landscape, devoid of culinary art. What kind of place is this—a melting pot of sorts, embracing frozen TV dinners, hot dogs, and hamburgers? Roland, a classically-trained European cook, heads to this new world … and, he never looks back.
A NEW WORLD, A FRENCH CHEF, THE AMERICAN DREAM
RGH: I graduated from the kitchen apprenticeship, earning my CAP—Certificate of Aptitudes Professional. Afterward, graduates prepare to go out and practice their craft, where we are sent around the country for a few years. In a sense, we were not “finalized” apprentices until we earned that work experience. We were sent to a different part of the country to work for a season or to do a “stage”—working for free (often for room and board), to develop our craft. When we turned eighteen, we entered the military. After the military service, I had a few jobs in Paris, did some fill-in work. Our schedule was such that we could work until 2:30 and have a break until 5:30, then return for dinner service. During our afternoon break, we would often go to the Association. If you fooled around the night before, you’d grab a nap. Otherwise, we’d go to the club, play foosball, drink lemonade, and talk to the other guys.
An announcement board posted job opportunities—offers for cooks to fill in, like a chef de partie (line cook, in charge of a station). You could apply for two weeks here, two weeks there, etc. You could earn a living for a few years working as a “floater”—covering vacation times and filling in for chefs. I did that for a while. After the military, it was helpful. You could try different organizations to give you a chance to get back into the swing of things … a pretty good system. You still make a living, develop contacts, etc.
This is where they had this big poster for the 1967 World Expo, in Montreal: Expo! Adventure! Travel! See the world! Work in the French Pavilion, representing France! Discover new horizons! Come to Montreal! This was a big thing! At our age, you wanna have a good time, move to different places, and see new things. They speak French in Montreal. All the guys, we talked about it: If you sign, I sign!
Our group of twelve guys, we all went to Montreal together. The Expo ran from April to October. We worked our asses off, then played, then breakfast, then work, for those six months. We worked together, we partied together … I had my “gang” back. Then came the end of the Expo. Our visa lasted for six months. We were to return to France, but pushed: You promised us “new horizons!” We pushed and got two weeks paid vacation. We rented cars and took off down the Trans-Canada Highway. Expo was one of the best things I did.
Our visas were expired, we were low on money, and we didn’t want to return to France. We met a recruiter looking for restaurant workers to help open a casino in the Grand Bahama at the Grand Lucayan, Beach Hotel. Our whole group signed up to work that winter at their hotel.
We kept hearing about this place called “Miami.” While visiting a friend at the Fontainebleau, I met another recruiter who found me a job at a country club in Long Island. But still, no papers. But this Miami recruiter said, no problem! Come to work. Recruiters wanted us in Florida—there were no good qualified cooks for these hotels. Fifty years ago, anyone was a chef. It was a nothing job. At the yacht club, I was introduced to a family at a barbeque. The father asked what I did for work. When I told him, “I cook,” he looked at me like syphilis.
* * *
Although it may be difficult to pinpoint the exact moment in time when Chef’s perspective switched from apprentice to mentor, there is one man who may begin the story of Chef Henin’s mentoring. If Roland is the God of Cooking, let us begin with Hercules.
THOMAS MEETS ZEUS
When asked to describe his first encounter with Thomas Keller, Chef Henin sums it up: He was a beach bum.
RGH: I was sous-chef at the Everglades Club in Palm Beach, Florida, before becoming executive chef at the Dunes Club in 1976. The Dunes Club was located on the beach, in Rhode Island. We’d work a split shift—prep and work lunch, have a break, then back to work for the dinner shift. The Dunes Club closed on Mondays, so we’d pack up a cooler, make sandwiches, go to the beach, and camp out during the day. On the other days, we’d go to the beach in the afternoon for a quick swim, rest for the p.m. shift, head back around 4:30, shower, and then back to work.
During these days, we would play Frisbee, running around on the sand. I’d see this guy … a tall skinny guy. He’d be walking on the beach with one, or sometimes two, or sometimes even three gorgeous women! Every day! I see him and I keep thinking, What does he have that I don’t have?! He’s tall, I’m tall. He’s skinny, I’m skinny. I’ve got an accent … he doesn’t!
One Monday, we are camped at the beach, and again, I see this guy with a couple of gorgeous women on his arm. I take my Frisbee and toss it into the wind, over in his direction. I throw it right smack in the middle of them! Then, I run over: “I yahm zo zorree! Aneeybody geht heyrrt
? Zo zorree … ”
One of the women says, “Oh, you have a wonderful accent! What is your name?”
“I yahm zah chef of zaht playyce, right ovah there [points to the Dunes Club].”
The young man says, “Oh, you’re the chef there?”
So, I give them a tour of the Dunes Club. I take them around and show them the kitchen. Since it is a Monday, it is all nice and clean. This guy is impressed.
He asks, “How does one get a job here? I’m a chef, too.”
[Laughs] Ahh, he is a “chef!” This kid! This skinny beach bum, torn jeans, with the ladies … he is a “chef.” He worked over at a burger joint. But hey, when you’re young, you got some skills, you work on the beach, then you are beach bum and you play. It’s what you do.
“If you’re interested, I may have the right ticket for you. My staff cooker just quit.”
“Sure!”
In those days, there was less paperwork and red tape to hiring. I said, “If you’re interested, I’ll see you next Tuesday at 9:00 a.m.”
“Okay!”
The first day, he had on jeans. I told him, “You can’t work with jeans. You see that office there? Grab some chef’s pants, hanging on that door.” We were about the same size.
Staff chef was a pretty pain-in-the-butt job. Fifty percent of the staff were the sons and daughters of the members. They would clean, wait tables … it kept them busy and legitimate with summer employment, and the parents could come visit them at the club. The kids were spoiled, always complaining about the food, being a pain in the butt. Filet mignon, again? Please!
When Thomas came in, I said, “Use whatever you want. The only thing is, PLEASE SHUT THEM DOWN. I don’t want to hear their complaining!” Thomas used the same products, but in just three to five days … SHHHHH. All the staff shut up: no moaning. No groaning. In no time at all, Thomas had turned it around. All of a sudden it became QUIET.
Roland G. Henin Page 3